


The Good, The Bad And The Warped.

by justascrubwritingquestionablestuff



Category: Madness Combat (Web Series)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Anal Sex, Begging, Biting, Blood and Gore, Comfort, Comfort Food, Degradation, Drugged Sex, Hate Sex, Healing, Kidnapping, Knifeplay, M/M, Multiple Orgasms, Non-Consensual Bondage, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Rape, Sex Toys, Smoking, Torture, but in a really painful way, mind breaking, you’ll see what I mean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-07
Updated: 2020-11-09
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:47:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27439807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justascrubwritingquestionablestuff/pseuds/justascrubwritingquestionablestuff
Summary: Hank decides that The Sheriff wouldn’t be a worthy death on his belt.So he does something far worse to him instead.
Relationships: The Sheriff/Hank J. Wimbleton
Comments: 10
Kudos: 11





	1. Just A Feeling.

**Author's Note:**

> I think I got possessed by a fucking demon or something-

The Sheriff felt more anxious than usual.

Hank wasn’t here, for once, because he wasn’t creating the usual bloodbath in his attempts to murder him. If that WAS the case (which it wasn’t), he’d know. But today, it was strangely... Quiet. He blamed it on the peace and quiet, even though his bodyguard, Jesus Christ, was having an epic battle with Tricky just outside of the building (and he could hear them, definitely).

So he stared at the paperwork on his desk, chewing the red end of his pencil with nervous intent. It tasted like wood- more specifically cedar- but the taste was not enough to distract him from the feeling of impending doom that bubbled maliciously in his stomach.

Finally, when he couldn’t stand it, he opened the drawer of his desk to reveal a glock, loaded and ready. He pulled it out, and then stood on top of the table to peer into the vent just above him. He opened it up and gave it a quick search.

There was no one inside.

So why did he still feel like someone else was in the room with him?

“... I must be paranoid,” he concluded to himself severely (yet reluctantly), closing the vent and sitting back down. “Hank isn’t here. I’m alright.”

Oh, how wrong he was.

Half a second too late did he realise that some one had grabbed his ankles, but before he could even react, the stranger pulled him forwards with such force that The Sheriff slid down from the chair and bashed his head harshly against the table with a horrible ‘bang!’ sound. It was enough to knock him out completely, but he felt his head getting pushed into a sack and his hands and ankles getting tied with ropes. If he wasn’t so unconscious, he’d register the fact that he was being kidnapped, but god did his head ache.

But even so, he wished that he had died from the head trauma when he heard Hank’s voice.

“You’re going to be a nice little plaything for me today.”

He could almost see the sadistic grimace on the killer’s face.


	2. Banshee.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> `` (in Irish legend): a female spirit whose wailing warns of a death in a house. ’ ’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There’s gonna be a lot of screaming in this one,,,,

Exhausted.

The Sheriff felt so, so exhausted.

His breaths were ragged, his wrists stung, and he couldn’t see.

Where was he?

He wasn’t sure.

What was happening?

He wasn’t too sure of that either.

All he could do was wince as the sack was lifted off of his head, his eyes now being revealed to an almost blindingly bright light. Eventually, everything became clearer, and he slowly registered the fact that he had been kidnapped. The Sheriff slowly turned his head around to try and find his hands, only to find them tied behind his back. He was sitting down, on a wooden chair, and he almost didn’t turn his head back around to face the smiling bastard in front of him.

He knew it was Hank. Only he’d be able to do such an impossible thing such as kidnapping him of all people.

“You awake yet, sunshine?” Hank teased in a mocking tone. He had a cigarette in his mouth, and was puffing out clouds of smoke like a chimney. “Good. Wouldn’t wanna keep me waiting now, would you?”

A beat of silence passed, before Hank stubbed his cigarette into The Sheriff’s arm in order to properly awaken him. He yelped from the burning sensation of the cigarette, eyes finally stretching open wide, his senses more alert, more on edge. He spat at the killer’s face (which was VERY uncharacteristic of him, as he was a coward) and growled at him, like some sort of rabid dog.

“You’re going to regret this, you asshole,” he hissed, confidence slowly disappearing as Hank burnt his gaze into him. “I’m the sheriff- just you wait until my bodyguard finds you-”

Hank laughed, patting The Sheriff’s face in an almost fond way. “Oh, he won’t. We’re quite deep in the ground right now. It would take a lot of searching and digging for him to find us.”

Apparently pissed off, The Sheriff harshly bit at his finger. Hank retracted his hand with a growl, squeezing a small, bleeding wound on his finger.

“You little bitch!” He grumbled, stepping back and reaching for something on a nearby table (they were most likely in a basement of an old house, somewhere in Nevada). “I’ll show you what happens when you behave like a little mutt...”

He raised his right hand up to reveal a knife, and put it up to The Sheriff’s neck, who yelled in pain as the knife formed a long, horizontal line of red along his throat. It wasn’t deep enough to kill him, but it sure was enough to make him shake from both the pain and fear that he felt. Hank chuckled darkly at his reaction, removing the knife and placing it back onto the table.

“If you don’t want me to do that again,” he spoke with malice in his voice. “then you’ll keep quiet and let me drug you.”

“What?!” The Sheriff shouted, before beginning to struggle against the chair and rock on its legs. “Hell no! I won’t let you do shit to me!”

“JEBUS, I’M DOWN HERE!” He called out, for he recognised his surroundings as a basement. Therefore, they were in a house, and they must be close to the building he was in previously, otherwise he would have woken up whilst still being dragged. “I’M DOWN HERE, AND HANK IS-”

But then, his cries for help were interrupted with a bloodcurdling shriek, when Hank stabbed his thigh. He drove the knife through the skin and pierced the throbbing veins, as blood spurted out from the gash in The Sheriff’s leg. The Sheriff sobbed quietly and shakily as the knife was pulled out sharply, and Hank watched the crimson flow slowly before fishing in his pocket for a plaster. He took one out and simply slapped it over the wound, essentially stopping the bleeding. It still hurt like all hell, but at least he wouldn’t die mid-way through.

“Next time, I’ll let you bleed out. So shut the fuck up, and let me drug you.”

And sadly, The Sheriff had to comply.

Hank stepped back yet again to the table behind him (it must have been full of torture tools, but it was too dark for The Sheriff to confirm) and grabbed a syringe. It was full of a golden liquid coloured like honey, and it bubbled suspiciously as it was held closer to The Sheriff’s skin. Hank grabbed his chin and forced it out of the way in order to inject the stuff in through his neck, and afterwards, he pressed his face to where he had cut him, his slow, warm breaths tickling The Sheriff slightly.

Whatever was going to happen next was sure to destroy his pride and arrogance.

Before, The Sheriff was alert and paranoid, and he was trying everything he possibly could have done to try and escape Hank J. Wimbleton’s clutches. But now he was drowsy, and his sight was blurry. He could hear the blood pounding his his brain, and his ears rung slightly. He twitched slightly, as the effects of the drug slowed him down, and his head bowed forwards. Looking up at Hank, he realised how attractive he could have been, if not for the bandages and hatred they had for each other.

“What,” he huffed with effort, before continuing. “did you do to me.”

“Isn’t it simple, you little dimwit?” Hank flicked the side of The Sheriff’s head with a finger. “I bought this drug off of a seller in the streets. He told me it was perfect for people who got too... Excited, essentially. So now, you won’t be able to do anything but sit there and look pretty.”

Once again, he stepped back from the exhausted Sheriff and to the table, this time turning around to face said table in order to browse its contents. Meanwhile, The Sheriff shivered from how cold the room was, and he unintentionally thought about how hot Hank’s breathing was against his throat. He wanted to feel that warmth all over him. Wanted it on his hands, his chest, his thighs-

And, if he could have, he would have slapped himself for thinking of such filthy thoughts (especially about the enemy, out of all people).

Finally, Hank turned around to face The Sheriff, and was holding an odd looking bullet. It was blue, and it looked like for, but most of all, it was shaking and blurring itself slightly.

“Oh, am I gonna have fun with this,” Hank smirked, untying a thing piece of black string from his neck and wrapping it around the bullet-shaped toy. He walked over to The Sheriff and, quite harshly, ripped his clothes off of him as if he were Superman. With his victim’s bare chest now exposed, Hank pressed the toy against his ribs, and The Sheriff gasped at the peculiar sensation.

“A- vibrator?” He mumbled with worry. He unconsciously shut his legs together. “Don’t tell me you’re going to use THAT-”

“Of course I am, dumbass,” Hank snapped at him. “now spread your legs.”

When The Sheriff refused to do so, Hank simply reached for the knife behind him with an evil grin on his face. The Sheriff, apparently too worn-out, could only scream in pain yet again, as said knife was plunged into his other thigh, creating yet another stab wound, and causing his legs to automatically open again. Only because he had to, Hank paused the torture to place yet another plaster onto the gash. Laughing quietly, he unbuckled the belt around The Sheriff’s waist and let it drop to the floor as he pulled his trousers off (he didn’t realise this until now, but The Sheriff’s shoes had been pulled off beforehand).

To his embarrassment, he was sporting a ridiculously large boner.

Hank cackled. “God, you’re such a whore! I bet you would have made a better prostitute than the sheriff.”

Those words hurt very, very much.

As Hank spoke, he wrapped the bullet around his member, near the head of it, and the vibrations were already enough to make The Sheriff’s breath hitch. He ducked his head in shame, panting softly, his lust-filled eyes hidden by the ten-gallon hat that he was somehow still donned with. He didn’t notice Hank neither when he lit another cigarette, nor when he hummed in amusement at how pathetic The Sheriff looked, all tied up and exposed just for him, like a Christmas present. He noticed him when yet another cigarette was stubbed into his chest, and he yelped at the sudden pain, but this time, the pain subsided into pleasure, and he quivered as he watched his throbbing length twitch from the vibrations of the bullet.

Or, bullets. More of them had actually been added during that short period of time, and it shocked him with how easily he was getting distracted.

Hank, who had pulled up another chair and seated himself in front of The Sheriff, had a dial in his hand, and before his victim could even begin to protest against what was about to happen, he cranked the level up to such a stage that he had to throw his head back and cry out from how good he felt. He sobbed with utter delight, bucking his hips up into the space in front of him and mumbling sweet nothings to himself, and even Hank had to pause his smoking to watch The Sheriff twitch and gasp as his cock became slippery with slick, drenching the bullets with pre. To be frank, he was sort of entranced by how slutty his face looked, and the things he said were kind of kinky as well (‘fuck, that’s so good’, ‘please, don’t stop, don’t stop’, shit like that).

Finally, The Sheriff came, as streaks of white spurted out and onto Hank’s stomach.

But even though he had just come, Hank cranked the vibrations back up again, making The Sheriff son desperately.

“Stop,” he panted out. “just stop it- please, please, please-”

“You’re already winded out?” Hank frowned. “God, you really ARE pathetic. Maybe I should have gotten myself a grunt instead. At least it would have been appreciative.”

And unfortunately for The Sheriff, he had to endure the same pain and suffering, not two, not three, but FOUR more times. FOUR.

Oh, but even when the vibrations finally stopped, they weren’t done. They were far from finished.

Chest heaving with ragged gasps, The Sheriff whimpered as he watched Hank slowly and sensually remove his own clothing, shirt being pulled over his head and revealing a surprisingly fit pack of abs underneath. He noticed that his chest was shining with from a sheath of sweat - was Hank holding himself back all this time? Because even if he wasn’t, The Sheriff was already coming up with multiple comebacks about who the real hoe was, and he began to smile, when he realised that his wrists were free.

Almost immediately did he begin to dive to his right for his clothes (his glock was in his trouser pocket), but to his frustration, Hank quickly pulled him into his lap and against his own, equally big dick.

“Let me go,” The Sheriff wheezed, weakly struggling. “I’ve had enough of this-”

Instead of finishing his sentence, he instead moaned in surprise as he felt the member being shoved into him from behind. A series of pleasured noises escaped his mouth rather than bitter insults as he slapped against the member, panting and gasping, his eyes screwed tight, fingernails digging into Hank’s arms. When he felt a hand fist his cock and work it over with enough vigour to send him to the moon and back, he yelled out with such force that he made a cracked whimpering sound as he came for the final time, followed by Hank’s muffled grunts as the killer came next.

They sat in sticky silence for a few moments, before Hank carefully lifted The Sheriff off of his cock and back onto the opposite chair. They were both pretty tired, especially The Sheriff. Hank leaned back and closed his eyes as he spoke.

“See? That wasn’t so bad, was it? I bet you wouldn’t mind doing it again, knowing the slut you secretly are.”

A pause.

“... We could make it daily, instead of wasting bullets and shit. Besides, your head wouldn’t be worth jackshit on my-”

Hank was interrupted by a gun being shoved up his mouth, and before he knew it, his brains were blown out of his head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next one is gonna somehow be more disturbing. :)


	3. Trials & Tribulations.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pain is like a boomerang: it always comes back, whether you want it to or not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is where the gore REALLY kicks in, so warning to those who might be affected-
> 
> And dear god, was a shitty simile, fucking hell-

The fucker was dead. For now, that is.

He couldn’t have been NOT dead, anyways - The Sheriff had blown his brains out, and when Hank tried to strangle him, he was instead thrown to the ground and shot, directly at his heart (for a coward, The Sheriff had fantastic aim). And just for good measure, he dug his hands through Hank’s skin, tore at it until his stomach was revealed and his intestines were hanging out unattractively. He found Hank’s rib cage, and then broke all of his ribs, bit by bit. He relished the screams of pain he heard from his previous captor, until his last rib was snapped off with a nice little ‘crack’, and he had finally died.

Again, he wasn’t dead forever, but he would be dead for now.

The Sheriff wasn’t done. He hated the killer, loathed him, despised the sadistic pride he took in kidnapping and raping him, and even though his mind was broken and his need for touch- HANK’S touch specifically, to his disgust- he wanted to tear him apart and mutilate his unpardonably beautiful body. So he went over to the table, which still had the very same knife that had created those cuts in his legs and on his throat, and, kneeling in front of Hank’s corpse, stabbed him in many different areas at least 28 times: 10 times in his lungs, 7 times in his stomach, 6 times in his intestines and 4 times in his heart.

There was a lot of blood. You could be sure of that.

Finally, The Sheriff threw his weapon aside and remembered that he was absolutely in the raw, and groaned as he realised how gross he probably smelt (I mean, semen, sweat, tears and blood don’t really smell like roses). He grabbed his clothes and hurriedly pulled them back on, buckling his belt tighter than usual and buttoning his coat up completely. He looked at Hank’s mangled body one last time, grabbed his own glock from the table, and spat directly on the red glasses that hid his irises.

And just like that, he walked up out of the basement and left the building.

]#@#[

“Hank did WHAT to you?” Jebus recoiled in disgust as The Sheriff retold his little adventure. They were at ‘The Bakery!’, eating one of their famous cakes. Somehow, despite the place being ran by literally nobody, the cakes had stayed perfectly edible and tasty, and besides, comfort food was very helpful. All that thrusting and bucking worked up an appetite.

“Yep. He had at least 10 bullets with him, and then he tied them in a knot, right round my trophy.”

Jebus gulped, sipping from his cup dubiously. He knew that Hank was a disgusting creature, and that he should be punished for his crimes against humanity (and most of all against Nevada), but this was some next-level stuff. “Are you ok now, sir?”

“Me? ‘m fine. In fact,” The Sheriff smirked, stabbing his fork back into the cake slice on his plate. “I completely waste to his corpse. Stabbed him like... 26, 28 times?”

Jeb nodded, looking down at his barely eaten slice.

“... Yer gonna eat that?” The Sheriff asked, eyes skirting over Jebus.

“No.” He paused, pushing his plate towards his boss. “I don’t feel that hungry, now.”

“Good. I just got raped. I need my energy back.”

“It’s not an excuse, sir.” He frowned, his gaze avoiding his mandibles as he noisily chomped on his next slice. He instead focused his sight on the scar on his neck. It was a very dark red, and long and thin.

Jeb hoped it didn’t hurt.

“You’re a shit bodyguard,” The Sheriff grinned after a few moments of silence. “what were yer doin’ with that stupid clown? You’re a bodyguard, not a fighter.”

“He was asking for it,” Jebus mumbled. “literally. Hoffnar whacked my face with a stop sign, and I swear- I’m telling you boss, he was begging for a beating.”

“In what context?”

“Sir!”

The Sheriff laughed. And eventually, Jebus did too.

They were scared of Hank (even Jeb was, he was concerned about his constant reviving), of course. They weren’t fools. And sure, they were in the middle of a war that could be described as apocalyptic.

But that didn’t stop them from enjoying a nice, friendly chuckle together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope ya’ll liked my work-
> 
> I don’t really know how to type like a cowboy, so I hope I’m accurate enough-
> 
> And as well as Jebus’ personality too, I have no fucking idea how to talk like him, so I tried my best- ‘:>

**Author's Note:**

> I think someone already made a gore-and-blood fic about these two, but mine is even more cursed- :)


End file.
